Follow the Money Read Online Free Page B

look much different from what it was before the makeover.
    Manning leaned back against the sink; Caulfield sat down at the breakfast nook and took out a notebook. The water boiled and I filled the glass jug and set the plunger.
    ‘Black or white?’
    ‘Nothing for us. What’s your interest in Stefan Nordlung?’
    ‘Who says I have one?’
    ‘Photographs and footage taken by a bystander at the Spit marina where Nordlung was found dead this morning show you to have been present. You were also caught on a sweep shot taken by a TV news crew when they arrived. All this went to air on the midday news and one of our analysts identified you. So here we are, being nice.’
    ‘Not very nice. You’ve refused my hospitality.’
    Caulfield glanced at Manning. ‘This is what they told us about, Ken. He wears you down with this sort of stuff until you lose your temper and do and say things you shouldn’t. He’s a past master at it, especially when he had a PEA licence, which he doesn’t anymore.’
    ‘Years of experience,’ I said.
    Caulfield closed his notebook and stood. He stacked up to about 185 centimetres, but I’m 188 and these days pushing 90 kilos. Not that it was going to get physical, not like in the days of DS ‘Bumper’ Flanagan, when physical was the name of the game. But it helps to stand your ground on an equal or better level.
    ‘You’re in our books, Hardy. First time we catch you putting your nose into police business you’re in serious trouble. You’re not licensed to do anything except pick your fucking nose. Any hint of harassment, a speeding violation, a nine thousand dollar deposit in a bank account, any sign of a gun and you’re gone.’
    ‘On what sort of charge?’
    ‘Conspiracy’s a big net with fine mesh. As witness the judge presently not getting out and about and having a jolly good time on his pension with his pals.’
    I nodded. ‘Terrorism’ll stretch a bit, too.’
    Caulfield glanced at Manning. ‘That’s a thought. All unnecessary if you tell us what you were doing there.’
    ‘Maybe later,’ I said. ‘Leave me your card.’
    Caulfield slapped a card down on the table and they trooped out, not slamming the door. This kind of thing had happened quite a few times since I’d lost my licence. I suppose the cops couldn’t be blamed. There were always rogues in the profession; I wasn’t the worst but, as Caulfield said, I had a habit of getting under police skins. For tough guys, police skins are thin.
    I was upstairs at the computer, working through Sabatini’s articles, when he rang.
    ‘You didn’t put all your cards on the table,’ he said.
    ‘How’s that?’
    ‘I saw the news. You were there when they fished Nordlung out.’
    ‘Yes, I was just sticking to our no-names policy.’
    ‘I’m not sure I buy that, but it’s blown now. I bet I can guess who hired you.’
    ‘Guess away.’
    ‘Miles Standish, right?’
    ‘Let’s say you’re right. How did you get there?’
    ‘I’m not sure I can trust you. You’re economical with the facts.’
    I laughed. ‘Nice one. Aren’t we all? OK, well I’ll give you something that might interest you. Two cops came to see me when I got home. Like you, they’d seen the news coverage and they warned me off. Obviously Nordlung meant something to them or why would they bother?’
    There was a long pause and I thought I knew what was going through his head. I’d discussed this sort of thing with Lily a few times. Names, information, connections are the lifeblood of investigative journalism and private investigation alike. They’re also the currency, to be hoarded or traded. Sabatini thought I’d hoarded a bit. He had something to trade, but was it worth his while? The other thing about information is that its value drops the more people share it. It has a use-by date. Sabatini made his decision.
    ‘OK, you’d find out something about it sooner or later so you’re getting it from me now: the real stuff. I’m investing in